As was expected, they had not been the first expedition to get this far into the Dell.
Even now, the Archprophetess could sense the metallic smell of Khorne in the air around them, even in the centre of their makeshift camp, her fellow Tzaangor surrounding her.
In front of Sytarith, bound upon a fallen ancient stone pillar, her prisoner lay.
The Tzaangor had stalked the elusive slag-haulers for days, with several close calls, until one had finally been ensnared and encircled enough to force a confrontation. By now the Templar warband had noticed that the Slag-haulers seemed to encompass multiple of the races of the mortal realms. They had seen what looked like Humans, Grots, Aelves, even Orruks, although it had been hard to tell underneath the camouflage cloaks. This one – probably an Aelf or a human, but Sytarith could only tell for certain when she had them in her claws.
Just as they had set upon taking them captive, the Templar force was encircled and ambushed. Aelven warriors clad in green, the wanderers under the employ of the Seraphon.
The attack had been vicious and sudden; more than that, they had tried to break through the Templars’ lines to strike directly at her. Obviously, their misguided attempts had been thwarted and the attackers slaughtered, but it had been much too close for comfort. It could have ended then and there. The Archprophetess had not foreseen it, and her credibility had suffered.
More than that, when they finally got to the Slag-hauler, who was a human, he proved less than cooperative. He had made no sound, no word, no whisper, when she asked him about ancient ruins of note or wreckage from the Xarlanth, he remained silent, even in the face of threats. When one of her Templars laid a hand on him, he simply and frustratingly expired, without a cry, without a whimper, he fell down dead.
Archprophetess Sytarith could see there was magic woven around him, but it was too clouded, too uncertain, to truly make sense of it.
The Slug-hauler was dead, and as Sytarith looked around her, she could see in the expressionless golden helms of the Templars that they were questioning her leadership. They had gained nothing from the encounter. Nothing at all.
Thus, the being bound upon the pillar before her, was an Aelven minion of the Seraphon, not a Slag-hauler. They had found him still breathing after poking around his comrades’ remains, much to his misfortune.
The left side of his face was heavily bruised, courtesy of a plated Templar gauntlet; it was, however, not the only injury on his body. There were multiple deep, jagged cuts.
“Tell me, who wished for my death?” The Archprophetess spoke, serenely and with a hint of dry humour.
She could see in his eyes that he considered staying stoically silent, but his hatred won out. Excellent.
“All that lives and breathes does. Your kind is not welcome here, witch.” He squeezed out.
“We can agree on that, servant of the wreck. It is not that I do much care, though.” Her clawed hand set down on the stone pillar, uncomfortably close to his head.
“Tell me about what you do here. Tell me what you have found, of the wreckage, of locations of power. You will tell me all of it.”
The wanderer did not struggle in his bounds. He knew it was futile, Sytarith presumed.
“I will tell you nothing, witch. The Xarlanth will rise again.”
Now that was highly unlikely, and her beak clicked in amusement.
She shot a glance toward the Templar guard towering above the Aelf, his golden helm still expressionless.
Sytarith tensed, but not obviously, she hoped. She decided against interrogating the wanderer in mundane ways. There was too much to lose if he remained strong.
“As you wish.” She took a measured step back and took her staff firmly in both hands. From her position, she drew a long straight line backwards in the dirt, until she abruptly stopped, and equally abruptly changed direction.
The Archprophetess took her time to draw the complex geometric pattern inside a circle around the pillar and their prisoner – ostensibly for intimidation purposes, which proved effective considering their increasingly uneasy looking guest, but in truth, she feared she would make a mistake, rendering the whole ritual non-functional.
When she finished, she returned to the wanderer with measured steps.
“Civility demands I forewarn you. The process is painful.”
The Archprophetess opened his wounds back up with a curved knife, then stood back and planted her staff before her, the crystal in its head glowing brighter and brighter, inky strains of dark magic gathering around her.
She watched as the Aelf’s blood was drawn down the pillar, towards the lines she had drawn. He writhed in agony.
“By Our Saviour’s Will, you will tell me everything.”
